


Youth

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU where Twelve is played by late-80's PCap, F/M, bby!Twelve AU, mentions of Danny and Kate and Osgood, no I don't think old PCap is gross--just think of the possibilities, written pre-s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a run-in with the Sisterhood of Karn, the Doctor comes over to Clara's looking a little different than normal. young!12 AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youth

**Author's Note:**

> So I was rereading some old work of mine over on ff.net and I came across this thing that I wrote last July, before we had anything to go by as far as what s8 was going to be like other than "darker Doctor" (ha!), and found that this was fairly in-character for being written blind. That being said, I decided to share it on here as well with the warning that, yes, this was written pre-s8.
> 
> Consider this an AU of s8 where instead of fetching coffee at the end of Deep Breath, the Doctor ends up upsetting the Sisterhood of Karn instead and BOOM--the Beeb breaks out the budget and CGIs thirty years off PCap for shiggles.

When the TARDIS had warped into Clara's sitting room, she was only marginally surprised. With the new face, the Doctor had taken to materializing the ship right into her flat so that he wouldn't have to go up and fetch her. It wasn't about the older knees or the effort involved or anything like that, but being seen by the neighbors that seemed to set him off. He was, as funny to think, _embarrassed_.

He _liked_ being with Clara, that was not the issue at all, and was not embarrassed by _her_ , but embarrassed that he went from "oh, he has a doctorate" to "oh, he's the old family physician" in a matter of moments. Clara had said she didn't mind, that she liked the way his silver hair fluffed up and how there were now lines in his face and even more awkwardness to his limbs.

"You're distinguished," she would say before curling up into his side and turning on the DVD player. Distinguished? That was a thing? The Doctor really had no idea, other than that his companion treated him as if he still looked her age. It was odd, really.

So Clara, thinking that it was all a bunch of silliness, humored the Doctor as the TARDIS landed in the flat and he heard the door open from her spot in the kitchen.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"Yes please," replied a voice that definitely did not _sound_ like the Doctor in anything but accent. "Can you make a pot? I think I'm going to need it."

"What's wrong? You sound sick or something," Clara said as she put together tea for her and an extra-large mug of instant coffee for the Doctor.

"Not exactly," he said. Sighing, Clara put everything on a tray and began to carry it out into the sitting room. She was only a couple steps out of the kitchen when she gasped and dropped the tray on the ground.

There, before her, was a man certainly _dressed_ like the Doctor, but was _not_ the Doctor. He was younger; with brown hair and no lines on his face and wait a second… was his hair curly? Was that still baby fat? No, it couldn't be… he looked not a day over thirty.

"Who—who are you…?!"

"Oh, Clara, just look at what you've done," the man groaned, bending down to begin picking up the mess. "Coffee doesn't come out of rugs very well, you know that."

"Doctor…?!"

"Yes, who did you think it was? The fifth Beatle? Now come on and help me."

Clara bent down and began setting ruined biscuits and shattered mug remnants on the tray while looking at the Doctor. Yes… it was him. He still had the same intense glare and those eyebrows, though not as wild, furrowed in the same manner. Yes. Yes it was him.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I, erm, had a run-in with the Sisterhood of Karn while I was away," the Doctor breathed. He looked sideways to avoid eye contact, his cheeks tinging with color. "They don't like me much these days and thought they'd have a laugh."

"That's a laugh?" Clara lifted the tray up and brought it back to the kitchen counter. "How did they… you know…?"

"Not sure. If they wanted to make me younger, I'd have to have gone through a face or two at the least," the Doctor frowned. "Not sure what the point of this exercise is, but it certainly hasn't helped my balance issue." He flailed his arms for emphasis, causing Clara to giggle.

"What _did_ you do to them?"

"Nothing…" the Doctor said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Justcrashlandedintheirtempleandburntdownthevestibule."

"What…?"

"It was an accident, alright?" the Doctor huffed. He sat down at the table, hands still in his pockets, and pouted. "I apologized and everything."

"Are you sure?" Clara smirked. She leaned over to look him in the eyes—they were blue today, with a fleck of green—the color had been the only part to really stay the same.

"Yes, I'm _sure_ ," the Doctor groaned as he rolled his eyes. His line of vision crossed with Clara's and he scrunched up his nose. "…what?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What are you looking at? I'm the same man! Don't tell me you think I look immature now!"

Clara straightened and placed her fists on her hips. "So you're saying that I should be concerned about you _looking_ immature…?"

_You walked into that one._ "Well, I…"

"I think you look fine," Clara said. She brushed some of the curls out of the Doctor's face and sighed. "You always look fine. Remember that ginormous chin?"

"That was sort of a large chin."

"Now sit there and shut up and let me make you coffee."

* * *

It wasn't necessarily a new feeling, but the Doctor could have sworn he was being glared at.

Oh yes, the maths teacher from over by the doors. He had his eye on Clara too. Actually, there were a couple bachelor teachers at Coal Hill who would have jumped on the opportunity to ask Clara for coffee but didn't because she always seemed to be engaged. Well, maybe _engaged_ was not necessarily the right word in the context, since words loved having double and even triple meanings at times. It was more like she was _busy_ or _occupied_ … no, not occupied. Language, Doctor. Language.

With teenagers swarming around them in an effort to break free of their daily prison, Clara took the Doctor's outstretched arm and they began to walk.

"This your new boyfriend, Miss Oswald?" one of the students laughed as they walked outside of the gate. He was no older than twelve, but had the cheeky air of someone who had already discovered the periodicals underneath his brother's mattress.

"Bug off," the Doctor growled. The boy stood there, unimpressed.

"John, behave," Clara hissed, lightly hitting the Doctor's forearm, "and you, Charles, you better run before I decide I'm your teacher again or you are going to be up to your ears in detention."

Now that got the boy's attention and he ran away, leaving the adults to now walk alone.

"' _John'_?" the Doctor questioned. "Since when do you call me that?"

"I don't know, maybe since that's a name you tend to use and I doubt you want to be referred to as 'Captain Troy Handsome' anymore…"

"What's wrong with being 'the Doctor'? I like being 'the Doctor'."

"Yes, but you were the Doctor when you had more chin and less eyebrow so don't tell me we need to pretend nothing happened."

She was still shorter than most of her students, but that didn't make Clara any less clever or able to find a point. "Fine. I guess I'm John Smith now."

"You can be _Doctor_ John Smith if you like."

"I'd rather not."

"Did you somehow become less fun?" Clara chuckled. The Doctor blushed.

"No, I just want to make sure we're on the same page, is all."

"Mmhmm. I think we are." Clara smiled to herself the remainder of the walk back to the TARDIS, which was waiting for them in a nearby park, knowing that the tips of the Doctor's ears had turned a nice, bright shade of red.

* * *

Sontarans. It just _had_ to be a platoon of crazed, raised-wrong Sontarans.

The Doctor ducked back down behind the rubble and pondered. He and Clara were across the way from the TARDIS, which had thankfully not been spotted by either the tuber-like aliens or the humans they were fighting with. It was going to be risky getting over there, but then again, the risk was half the fun of it.

"Okay Clara, I'm going to try to make it over there. You stay put and I'll bring the TARDIS this way," he said.

"Be careful, John," Clara replied, her breath still heavy from the run over.

"Still with that name! It's been days and you're still calling me that name!"

"I think your name should be amongst the least of our worries right now!" Clara snapped back, exasperated. She planted a kiss on the Doctor's cheek and gave him a shove on the shoulder. "Now run!"

The Doctor stared at Clara, intensely confused. She shoved him again, and this time he got up and ran across the battlefield. Well, it wasn't so much of a run as it was an arm-flailing glide that made him a bigger target than he should have been. He tumbled into the TARDIS and quickly threw her into gear. Moments later the door opened again and Clara rushed inside. She clung to him, shaking.

"Never do that to me again, John," she shivered. The Doctor patted her on the head with one hand and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders.

"I'll try."

* * *

It actually was a nice change of pace to not be shot at or be chased around or anything of the sort. Clara had requested they go dancing, so dancing they went. A Chicago speakeasy probably wasn't the best place but provided there wasn't a raid and the liquor was actual liquor and not embalming fluid everything else could be dealt with.

"Don't you think this place is a little much?" Clara asked as she twirled her long beaded necklace in her fingers. They were now sitting at a table, catching their breath. The Doctor shrugged in response.

"You asked for good music and dancing—I figured some jazz and jitterbug would be fitting, unless you'd rather find some punk rock and a mosh pit."

"This'll do," Clara smiled into her drink. "Besides, I think I like the outfits better this time around." It was true, as she had a shimmering sequined dress to go with his sharp suit. The only thing Clara had refused to change was her hair, which she instead curled and styled to the point no one could complain about her hair not being bobbed. Clara just knew she was lucky that the Doctor decided to play along and dress up for this outing. He even put product in his hair and slicked it back, which was extra effort on his part. It was an even darker brown now, almost black in the low and hazy light.

"Come on, let's go back out there," the Doctor grinned. He stood up and extended his hand.

"…but we just sat down."

"…but you wanted to dance. Be glad their dancing marathon's next weekend, or you'd really be sick of me."

Clara sighed and put her hand in his, allowing him to pull her up and twirl her towards the hardwood dance floor. The fringe on her skirt billowed and the heel of her feet began to twinge in warning of their limit being reached. Clara did not really care though, as the tempo was fast enough for her to work up more adrenaline and ignore the sore nerves in her system. It was all worth it.

The band slowed down the beat and the Doctor held Clara close as they cooled down. The entire bar was a thick mix of cigarette smoke and sweat and booze, but that was the times. Resting his chin on top of Clara's head, though, the Doctor could still catch a whiff of Clara's citrusy perfume.

As the song wore on, the Doctor noticed a couple of men walk into the room. They were both of average build and were as nominally-dressed as the rest of the patrons, but their eyes sang a different tune. The men began to walk towards them and the Doctor immediately knew their mission.

"Hey Jack, mind if we have a word with ya?" one of the men asked. He was slightly shorter than the other, not too terribly short but enough to notice. "We'll be nice and let the lady walk away."

"I'm not terribly sure what you want, but you're barking up the wrong tree," the Doctor growled, still slowly dancing with Clara. She could feel his grip on her become not necessarily tight, per say, but rigid in anticipation.

"We have reason to believe you're that Scot that's been running with the Purples," Short said.

"Wrong city," the Doctor sighed, with only Clara noticing the underlying irritation.

"Don't you find it a bit suspicious that none of us have ever seen the two of you before, yet you had the password and identification?" Tall questioned. Oh yeah, he did flash the psychic paper on the way in. The Doctor had already forgotten what it had said.

"I heard from a friend that this was a good place to go if a guy and his girl wanted a good time, so here we are," the Doctor said. "Don't let my accent fool you—I'm an expert in these things."

"Still, it would… how do I say it… behoove you to come along with us," Short said. He grabbed onto the Doctor's upper arm, preventing him from dancing.

"Please don't—I'm not fond of being touched by anyone but the lady." Instead, the man jerked him away from Clara.

"Oh dear," the Doctor growled, locking glares with Short. "I'm sorry I have to ruin our night out Clara, but it seems as if someone is persistent." He didn't take his eyes off the man while Clara stood there, biting her thumbnail and trying to figure out what to do.

At least she knew she could run in heels.

* * *

"Name please?" the desk clerk asked.

"Oswald-Smith, with a hyphen," the Doctor smiled. The clerk found the reservation and gave the Doctor a set of keycards. The alien nodded in thanks and went towards the lift to join Clara, who was fuming.

"I can't believe you did that," she hissed.

"Hmm…?"

"Why did you put our names in like that?!"

"Well, I figure it makes us look less conspicuous than just 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith', now wouldn't you agree?"

"We are not like that and you know it!"

"Oh really?" the Doctor said as they got in the empty lift. "So then you're not sticking around because I've now got even better hair and don't look like I scorched my eyebrows off and finally got rid of that ridiculous bowtie?"

"Your hair was fine, you've got almost too much eyebrow, and the bowtie was cool."

"It was not. Besides, I'm better at being cross now."

"You're Scottish; it doesn't count."

"Of course it does, dear. Strax practically worships me these days."

"I'm telling Vastra you said that," Clara groaned as they exited the lift. The Doctor followed, furrowing his eyebrows in calculated concern.

"You're bluffing."

"You're the one boasting while wearing a dad-jumper with Doc Martens and booking rooms with two beds."

"Comfort _and_ style, dearest," the Doctor frowned as he opened up the room. This round of Clara's list of "best football matches off all time" better have been worth it for all the grief he was getting.

Well, Clara was worth it… so a disastrous whirlwind of how many matches was it now should have definitely been worth it.

* * *

"You're scared—admit it," Clara grinned.

"Am not."

"Don't lie to me. For all the flirting and being nice and joking around you do, you are terrified."

The Doctor looked at the woman on the other end of the couch as she smiled… smugly? Clara was _smiling smugly at him_. No one smiled smugly at the Doctor and got away with it, even if they were a hundred percent correct.

"Now why would I have any reason to be scared?" he asked.

Clara propped her elbow on the armrest and cradled her chin in her palm. "Oh, I don't know… maybe you're just insecure about what'll happen if that hocus pocus wears off. Maybe you're afraid of commitment?"

"I've been married—I know what commitment is."

"'Til death or the time vortex do you part, hmm? Are those Gallifreyan vows or are they just implied?"

"You are _impossible_."

"Then stop calling me your impossible girl," Clara smirked. She changed the channel, waiting for a further response. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Doctor pout almost childishly.

After a few more channels the Doctor began to get restless. He scooted across the cushions until he was right next to Clara. He hunched slightly, staring at her with his intense and heavy-lidded eyes.

"…and what do you think you're doing?" she giggled. Clara turned her head and saw that the Doctor was inches from her.

"You're trying to trick me."

"Now why would I do a thing like that?"

"Oh, I don't know, because you're flirty and bossy and know way too much about me for my own good," the Doctor frowned. He narrowed his eyes further in concentration.

"Chicken," Clara chuckled.

The Doctor tilted his head to the side as he examined this girl, this woman, this human, sitting next to him. He pulled her hair back from her face, unsurprised that she didn't protest. Her skin was flushed-hot, though he didn't notice thanks to his being just as warm. He leaned in and, after hesitating, kissed her. It was just contact at first, but then Clara kissed back and soon he found himself with her fingers in his hair and his hands on her hips and the nape of her neck.

As the kiss broke apart, the Doctor was surprised that Clara was laughing. "What's so funny?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"For being the most feared creature in all of time and space, you really are rubbish when it comes to kissing," Clara smirked, twirling a bit of his hair around her finger.

"I just haven't gotten any practice in with this face yet," the Doctor scoffed. "There have been many faces where I didn't even get in a single good snog, I'll have you know. Needing to relearn muscle memory is not my fault."

"Excuses, excuses," Clara sighed, rolling her eyes. "How about we get in a little more practice, hmm?"

The Doctor really couldn't argue with that.

* * *

Dave Oswald was suspicious.

Unfortunately, he had made it a habit of being suspicious of his daughter's boyfriends. It was only a natural father's instinct, he kept on telling himself, but after meeting some supposedly-Swedish-but-sounding-Midlands fellow that one Christmas he felt it was within his right to meet any sort of man his daughter was associating with almost as soon as possible. When he found out that Clara had been seeing this new man for almost three months without so much as a word… it was imperative that he meet the young man for coffee as soon as possible.

"How are you doing, Mr. Oswald?" asked the young man, his tone more familiar than was comfortable. He was tall and gangly and had a mop of unruly brown hair.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

"…oh, no, I'm th… erm… John Smith. Clara's boyfriend. I've seen your photo," the man stammered in a Glaswegian accent. He sat down across from Dave with a large coffee in his hand. "It's good to finally meet you."

"Likewise. Can I assume you know _why_ I asked to meet you so early?"

"Clara said something about impressing her gran on Christmas one year."

"She might have been impressed, but I wasn't," Dave sighed into his coffee. "You might understand, or you will understand, if you have a daughter of your own."

"I think I can imagine well enough without having a daughter," the Doctor replied. "You're a good man, Dave… if I can call you Dave."

"You can. Man, you sound _ancient_ ," Dave laughed. "How old are you anyways? Thirty?"

"Two thousand one hundred thirty-one," the Doctor said with a grin. Dave snorted in laughter.

"You've got a proper sense of humor on you, this is good. I think we're going to get along."

* * *

Charleston? Check. Salsa? Check. For crying out loud, he could polka.

Of all the dances the Doctor had to be complete rubbish at, it was the waltz.

"You can do this John, come on now," Clara sighed, using the name she only ever really teased him with these days. She dusted off his shoulders (he really needed to clean the ballroom more often) and posed him again. "Muscle memory, remember?"

"Yes, but Clara, we've been at this for hours…"

"Then it's a good thing TARDIS doesn't stand for ' _Tea_ and Relative Dimensions in Space' or else we'd be in trouble. Now please keep up this time."

The TARDIS turned on the music (the Doctor could hear the ship's manic glee at his predicament) and Clara tried walking the Doctor through the steps again. Slow and halting, he could nearly get the hang of it one step at a time, but once they picked up the pace and tried to match the flow of the song the Doctor stumbled.

"I don't get it… is it because you don't need to flail everywhere you go?"

"We wouldn't need to do this if you didn't want to meet Mozart," the Doctor grumbled. "Why can't we go meet the Sex Pistols… or the lads that first started that krumping thing. I'm good at that."

Clara shook her head and sighed. "No, you are not going to krump ever again. You asked me where I wanted to go for our six month anniversary and I want to go meet Mozart and you can't go and meet Mozart without knowing how to waltz. Even the TARDIS agrees with me on this one and we never agree on anything."

The TARDIS whirred and wheezed in agreement, which caused the Doctor to pout and try to blow some of his curly brown hair from his face in a huff.

"I should have known you two would team up against me one day."

"Now," Clara smiled as the music began to play again, "let's take it from the top."

* * *

Clara was in serious trouble.

Normally she was pretty good at staying out of trouble when they went on adventures. She'd listen to the expert (that was the Doctor) and if she was ever kidnapped or assaulted or put into any sort of danger either it was his fault or she was able to work her way out of it or both. This time she actually walked right into a trap in a spaceport alley, where she was taken hostage by a man with a phaser that was not exactly in the mood for talking.

"Put the gun down," the Doctor growled. He narrowed his eyes at Clara's hostage-maker, who merely laughed.

"You think you can scare me, _boy_?" he snarled. "I was ten years a soldier when you was still shitting in your pants."

"Oh, I highly doubt that. Check your records again."

The young man was so calm and steel-voiced that the captor put Clara in a headlock with his phaser limb and used his now free hand to check the database display in his visor. Doctor, Doctor, Doctor…

The Doctor…

This man? This young and awkward sack of limbs and hair? The man who has destroyed civilizations on a fancy…?

The database said yes.

Old and hardened soldier or not, the man had never let go and run faster.

* * *

The students of Coal Hill found it, dare they say, cute.

They had liked Miss Oswald's previous boyfriend well enough, the man that was a little too much limb and a bit too many bowties and somehow able to stumble about all left feet until a football was kicked his way. No one had _asked_ why she traded in awkward limbs and a large chin for awkward limbs and an angry scowl, but those invested in the rumor mill were convinced that somehow there had been an upgrade.

He may have been scowls and abrasive shouting and eyebrows (had she just missed having a man with actual eyebrows?) whenever Miss Oswald seemed agitated with them, but only the best spies were able to "accidentally" catch them in a snog during lunch and him being extremely protective of her to the point of silently threatening anyone he thought too much a hooligan to come within five respectful feet of Miss Oswald. In reality there were only a few real hooligans at Coal Hill, and even fewer that could be considered even the remotest bit dangerous, but that didn't stop him.

That was even _before_ he took a position as caretaker for a while, clearly as a means to be close to her during the day. When he wasn't finding excuses to skulk around Miss Oswald's corridor he was occasionally approachable, often doling out wisdom and truths more suited to a man thirty years his elder. It was like some sort of odd teen drama in a way. Eventually they stopped asking questions and just carefully watched from a distance as they'd brush against one another in the halls and give each other sly glances when they thought no one was looking.

If you wanted to fool anyone about being head-over-heels for someone, don't try to fool teenagers. It doesn't work that well.

* * *

Honestly, it had been a question the Doctor had been anticipating for quite some time.

He and Clara were lying on the sitting room couch, listening to the rain on the awning outside. The Doctor watched the windowpane intensely, his head resting on Clara's stomach, as she ran her fingers through his hair. She was tired, and the weather was good for sleeping. So good, in fact, that the Doctor was a bit surprised when he heard Clara's voice.

"Doctor…?"

"Clara?"

"Are you happy?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. The Doctor lifted his head up to see Clara's head wedged in the crook of the armrest and the back of the couch with her eyes closed. "Of course I'm happy. Why?"

"It's just that… you're spending a lot of time with me. You spend more and more of your days outside the TARDIS than in them these days."

"I haven't been happy in a long time, dearest." The Doctor propped himself up on his elbows and slid upwards, reaching to plant a kiss under Clara's jaw. "I'm just happy that I'm alive right now; I think I can afford to take it slow for a while. Since you're the source of my happiness, then why not be with you?"

Clara chuckled at that. "Maybe if you had asked them nicely yourself…"

"The Time Council? Those tits? I'd have better luck being granted a new regeneration cycle by the TARDIS—they _hate_ me."

"Mmhmm. Sure thing," Clara smiled. The Doctor stared at her momentarily before putting an ear to her chest; she was sleeping. He got up and draped a blanket over her before shuffling on over to the kitchen to make himself coffee.

Of course he was happy. There was no question that he was happy. He was there, in Clara's flat, and that was what mattered. She was cared for and content and safe, and that was what mattered. They were together… and that was what mattered. What was there for the Doctor to be concerned about?

Honestly, he didn't really want to think about that.

* * *

Another face? So soon after the new one? And he didn't even have to regenerate for it? What, he was replaced by a Zygon? Osgood, get me my scanner.

No, _you_ stay here. _Both of you_. I can't let either of you out of my sight for more than _**five minutes**_ without everything going to absolute hell and chaos. Do you realize how long it takes to retrain every time there's a face swap? Five months. Five. Months. Wasted. Osgood, a drink while you're at it. Get one for yourself too, as long as mine's a double.

No, not you. You barely look old enough to drink, let alone handle whiskey. Yes, yes, I know you _are_ still the same man but I am so cross with you right now that I need to scream.

Well, neither of you are Zygons, or any other type of alien other than what you're supposed to be. No, you're still not getting a drink. That is from a barrel my father laid down and if your taste buds do not fancy it then that is a waste of a glass. It does not need to be on my office rug.

How do you deal with this thing? Wait, you are _dating_ this thing? Are you mental? Are you seriously fit to be educating our nation's youth right now? There is something seriously wrong here. Wait, he works there too?! How did we not know this? We are the largest internal monitoring organization in the nation and we didn't know he took on a part time position cleaning sick in the schoolyard…? Yes, yes, we barely knew about the face until three hours ago curb your sass you cheeky troublemaker this is your fault to begin with.

Osgood, please, I know it's not your job but can you get me some aspirin? I think this is going to be a very long night.

* * *

His world was cast in darkness as it was the Doctor's turn to be the living pillow. He had found that his brain could be more productive while lying with his eyes closed, even if it meant he had to deal with Clara teasing him about having possibly fallen asleep. What good has sleep given the Doctor? Most of the time when he filters back from unconsciousness, it is because someone had knocked him out. It was all nothing but trouble; he wondered why Clara put up with it.

The Doctor took a deep breath as he felt a tingling sensation—a nerve under too much pressure, most likely—and shifted slightly. Clara used this motion to justify shifting herself, crawling up a little and kissing the Doctor's lips. She gave a little chuckle as he kissed back, his hands finding her hips.

"Be _have_ , John," she warned teasingly. With a rumble of compliance, the Doctor moved one hand to the small of her back and the other towards a shoulder while she, on the other hand, held his face in place as they kissed. He finally opened his eyes when she broke the kiss to smile down at him, the tips of their noses just touching.

"What's so funny?" the Doctor asked.

"Oh, nothing," Clara smirked. She scraped a thumb across his cheekbone pensively. "Just that there's never a dull moment with you, is there?"

"Now what do you mean by that?" the Doctor laughed, tickling Clara in the side. In one quick movement she jerked into a ball, a fit of giggles. Clara rolled off the couch and onto the floor in order to escape her playful attacker.

The Doctor's laughter died, however, when he reached down to offer Clara a hand. While not wizened, his hand was now more skin and veins than it was before. He felt his face and he began to feel sick.

"Doctor, wait…!" Clara gasped as he stood up. He made his way to the bathroom and looked in the mirror—so _this_ was the laugh the Sisterhood of Karn had been talking about.

Stupid, stupid, stupid… he allowed himself to get comfortable, to get close, in a face that really wasn't his to wear, and now he was back to a lined face and grey hair and eyes much more suited to bulging. The Doctor rested his palms on the sink and leaned his weight into it; he was so foolish.

"Are you okay?" Clara asked. The Doctor saw out of the corner of his eye that she was standing in the doorway.

"No. I… need to leave for a bit."

"Don't lie to me, John."

"Clara, don't you see? I'm not John anymore." The Doctor turned his head and looked at the woman, standing there with a frown on her face and her arms folded. "I'm back to being the Doctor. It's… it's…"

"Rubbish," Clara scoffed. "You've been the Doctor this entire time, and from the way I see it John Smith is still standing right in front of me."

Straightening, the Doctor looked at Clara in confusion. He tried to edge around her, but she blocked the door rather solidly for someone a head shorter.

"How long have I…?"

"I dunno… about twenty minutes? When did we start kissing? Because it was before then that you glowed for a moment and went back again."

Really…? If that was the case… no, it didn't make sense. Clara was not an overly-shallow person, that was true, but even something like this…

"…but, I looked your age again…"

"Now why would I care about how you look?" Clara asked. She moved closer to the Doctor, putting her hands on his shoulders. "You've been the same man for a couple thousand years, give or take a few spins around the galaxy. Sometimes it takes a while to find the Doctor and decode his new face, but he's always in there even when he doesn't want to be." She slid her hands down to his chest, right above his hearts.

"But now I'm…"

"No. No buts. The only part about you that's different from when I woke up this morning is that now you look distinguished again. There are worse things than having a distinguished boyfriend."

Cautiously, the Doctor wrapped his arms around Clara's shoulders and bent down to kiss her neck. She did not shy away or flinch or anything. If anything, she clung even closer.

Maybe this being distinguished thing wasn't a bad idea after all.


End file.
